


stop, and breathe

by inbetweenfractals



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Asexual Character, Light BDSM, M/M, Self-Harm, Tenderness, Trans Character, not explicit however, set near the end of season 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:39:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24184504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inbetweenfractals/pseuds/inbetweenfractals
Summary: “Hurt me.”“Wha - no!” Martin splutters. He nearly stands, but his legs feel weak and he can’t. He feels pinned under Jon’s stare, like an insect. Perhaps one of those butterflies, with the iridescent wings, for Jon looks like he sees something in Martin that Martin doesn’t see in himself.“Hurt me,” Jon repeats, but his voice is quieter this time.“No!” Martin says again. Then, “Why?”“Please. I need to be stopped. I need to be hurt.” Jon’s breath goes out of him in a shaky rush. “It’s the only thing that makes me feel human anymore.”
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 6
Kudos: 185





	stop, and breathe

**Author's Note:**

> This is as sexual content-y as I get, and there's still no sex in it. But I've fallen hard for these two and I just really wanted to write something kind of tender for them. So, uh, yeah. Here you go.
> 
> I am of course writing more tma fic bc I am obsessed with it right now, so look out for that soon if you're interested.

They are at work in the Archives when Jon calls Martin into his office. That old trepidation curls in Martin’s stomach -  _ was Jon angry with him? What had he done wrong? _ \- but he closes his laptop anyway and enters the office.

Jon doesn’t look up as he enters. “Shut the door, please, Martin.”

Martin does so. When Jon doesn’t look up and doesn’t say a word, he prompts, “You wanted me…?”

“ _ Yes _ .” The word is barely more than a sigh, sending a thrill through Martin. “Please - sit down.”

Martin sits in the armchair across from Jon’s desk. Jon glances up at him briefly, then looks down at his scarred hands. There’s something wrong, Martin can tell that much. Jon’s expression is off, somehow. And he doesn’t have any work before him, no statements, not even a recorder.

“I have - a favor. To ask of you,” Jon says, obviously choosing his words with great delicacy.

“Sure,” Martin says, knowing that he would do almost anything Jon asked.

Jon meets his gaze then. There is something wild about his eyes, something almost - not animal, but inhuman in their brightness. It is a long moment before Jon speaks.

“Hurt me.” 

“Wha - no!” Martin splutters. He nearly stands, but his legs feel weak and he can’t. He feels pinned under Jon’s stare, like an insect. Perhaps one of those butterflies, with the iridescent wings, for Jon looks like he sees something in Martin that Martin doesn’t see in himself.

“Hurt me,” Jon repeats, but his voice is quieter this time.

“No!” Martin says again. Then, “Why?”

“Please. I need to be stopped. I need to be hurt.” Jon’s breath goes out of him in a shaky rush. “It’s the only thing that makes me feel human anymore.”

And  _ oh _ , if that isn’t the most fucked up thing Martin has heard in a long time. 

Martin still tries to say something, but whatever words he had die on his lips as Jon raises a hand to stop him. “I trust you,” Jon continues, now not looking at Martin. “Not to leave any irreparable damage.”

That’s hardly a ringing endorsement, especially coming from a man who won’t even look Martin in the eye anymore. Jon fidgets. Martin waits. 

When nothing more is forthcoming, Martin says, “I want to hear that again, but I want you to look me in the eye when you say it. And tell me  _ why _ .”

Jon meets his eyes. He looks almost shy, which Martin might have thought uncharacteristic a couple years ago. But now is now, and Jon seems honest.

“I trust you,” Jon says again. His tongue darts out to wet his lips before he continues. “I do. You’ve always taken care of me, even when I was. Well. Cruel.”

Martin wants to say  _ you’ve never been cruel _ but they both know that isn’t true, so he doesn’t say it.

“And I need - “ here Jon makes a frustrated noise, shutting his eyes before opening them again. “I need  _ pain _ , but I can’t be damaged forever. The Unknowing is coming and I - I know that you won’t hurt me in such a way I can’t recover. I trust you,” he says yet again.

Jon’s expression is as open as Martin has ever seen it. And maybe that’s what decides him.

“Fine,” Martin says. “Okay. But - not here. My flat. And we are going to  _ talk _ first.”

Martin can feel Jon appraise his flat with curiosity, and Martin can’t help but see it how he imagines Jon does. Mismatched furniture, mostly from thrift and consignment shops; no photos on the walls or anything, just postcards of various cute animals; mostly clean, but for a few books of poetry scattered on the coffee table.

Jon glances over the poetry, and sniffs, disdainful. “ _ Keats. _ ”

“Uh, yeah. Do you - not like Keats?” Martin says, not completely able to keep the irritation out of his voice.

Jon’s spine straightens at that, like he’s been called out. But he says nothing, just shakes his head.

Well, whatever the hell this is, it is off to a great start. Martin goes into the little galley kitchen, intent on fixing them some tea, as Jon settles on the couch, looking distinctly uncomfortable and out of place.

Martin hopes that a couple minutes away while he heats up the water will be enough to smooth that pinched expression off Jon’s face, but no such luck. When he comes back, Jon is picking at the cuff of his sleeve, which is beginning to look a bit threadbare. He has not removed his coat.

Martin sits next to him on the couch, first fetching coasters and setting the tea down on them. He’s made Jon’s just how he likes it - brewed for a normal amount of time, no sugar, a bit of cream. The cream lightens the black tea to a warm brown, several shades more pale than Jon’s skin.

Jon curls his fingers around the tea, nodding his thanks. But he does not drink. He waits, instead, as Martin gathers his thoughts.

“What’s all this about, then?” Martin asks at last.

Jon lifts a shoulder in what could be considered a shrug if it didn’t look so painful. “I need to feel human,” he says. Then he laughs, a bitter, unhappy thing. “As human as something like me can be, at any rate.”

He brings the tea to his lips, and despite it still being a bit too hot, he drinks. He doesn’t even wince at the heat, just drinks it like it’s the last bit of comfort he has in the world.

And maybe that’s true, Martin thinks with a pang. But it doesn’t have to be.

“You said you wanted to be hurt. But I don’t want to hurt you. Not when you’re like this - not ever really, but, um, well - “ and here Martin falters. He’s not exactly a sadist, but he likes the feeling of taking care of others. Of being dominant sometimes. So he doesn’t finish the sentence, instead saying, “What exactly do you want from me?”

“I don’t know,” Jon says. There is something deeply upset in the way he says  _ know _ . “I just - I don’t want to think, I don’t want to see. I just want it to be dark, and quiet, and…”

He trails off.

“And?” Martin prompts.

“Safe,” Jon murmurs, his cheeks coloring. 

“Okay,” Martin says. “Okay. Well, if we’re going to do this, we need a safeword at the very least. And boundaries. Stuff you absolutely don’t want me to do.”

Jon side-eyes him. “I’m not asking for  _ sex _ , Martin.”

Martin can feel his own cheeks go hot. What a surprise he hasn’t been blushing the entire time. “No! I mean - if you  _ wanted _ \- but no, it’s just that we’re going to do something that could put you in a weird headspace, and I don’t want to - to screw this up.”

“You won’t screw up, Martin,” Jon says, sounding weirdly confident. Like he knows already how this is going to go. “But fine. I assume the traffic light system is perfectly acceptable?”

Martin nods, mouth a bit dry. He takes a sip of his tea. When Jon does not go on, Martin asks, “And any hard  _ no _ s?”

“Nothing below the belt,” Jon says automatically. “I don’t want to undress fully - shirt off is fine, I suppose.” He breathes out through his nose. “Just - no genitals, no chest, nothing like that. Other than that?” He smiles, and it is a dark smile. “I heal quickly.”

Martin nods again. Jon heals quickly. Christ. Well Martin isn’t sure he’s going to take advantage of  _ that _ . 

Instead, Martin says quietly, “Do you want to start?”

Jon fidgets. He’s been fidget the whole time, really. Running his fingers over the mug, picking at his shirt sleeve, whatever. He’s  _ nervous. _ But he says, “Yes.”

“Okay. Take off your coat,” Martin says. “I’m not having you sweltering this entire time.”

Jon nods and does so, but says, “It doesn’t matter. I run cold.” He folds the coat up neatly and sets it on the coffee table.

“Can you - “ Martin licks his lips. “Can you undo your hair tie?”

Jon nods again, reaching upward.

Martin watches as Jon undoes the braid that keeps his hair neat, and as black and silver hair tumbles loose, made wavy by its confinement. Martin immediately tangles his fingers in Jon’s hair. The gray strands are noticeably coarser than the rest, but it is all thick and mostly pretty soft. 

As Martin touches him, Jon’s movements slow. They go from frenetic and anxious to languid and comfortable, as if a switch has been turned. Turned  _ off,  _ Martin thinks, not because Jon seems uninterested, but because all that pent up energy has just drained away.

Martin gently cups a hand under Jon’s sharp jaw so that the other man will look at him. Jon’s eyes are half-lidded, but even so there is a preternatural sharpness to them. Like he can’t help himself but see everything.

Something to do with Beholding, Martin decides. Well, Martin could do something about that.

“I’m going to blindfold you,” Martin says. “Is that okay?”

Jon nods against Martin’s hand. “ _ Yes _ .”

“I’m just going to use your tie.”

“Okay,” Jon agrees. Instead of untying it himself, he leans back, allowing Martin access to his neck. Martin feels a bit giddy at this display of trust, but this whole thing is a display of trust, isn’t it? And Jon’s mental health issues, yes, but trust too.

With slightly shaking fingers, he unties Jon’s necktie, as the shorter man watches curiously. That curious gaze only disappears as Martin reties the tie over Jon’s eyes, careful not to catch his hair.

Some of the tension just falls out of Jon’s shoulders. “Oh,” he breathes.

“You still good?” Martin asks. “What color?”

“Green,” Jon answers.

“Great,” Martin says with a smile. “You’re doing great, Jon. Can I kiss you?”

There’s a slight frown, there for a second but then gone. “Yes.”

“Are you sure? Because - “

“ _ Yes _ ,” Jon interrupts with a scowl. He sounds so much like his usual self that Martin can’t help but smile again. Martin rests his hands on either side of Jon’s jaw, and kisses him.

At first, Jon is unmoving. Stiff, even. But then he eases into the kiss with a sigh, lips parting just slightly. Taking this as encouragement, Martin presses closer, using his tongue to part Jon’s lips more. Jon hums, making his lips vibrate, and Martin grins into his mouth. He quickly goes back to kissing though, as Jon’s tongue finds his teeth.

When Martin finally pulls away, Jon tries to follow, but Martin’s hands keep him firmly in place. “No,” Martin says. He watches as Jon bites his lip, made red with Martin’s kisses. There is a tiny wince of pain as his teeth sink into swollen flesh.

Martin can see the pause before Jon bites viciously down on his own lip.

“Stop!” Martin cries.

Jon stops. 

There is a little blood on his teeth now, but the wound he made is already healed. He looks worried now, like he’s done something terribly wrong. There is a crease to his forehead, crinkling the tie a little.

“I - “ Jon begins, but Martin cuts him off by kissing that wrinkle between his eyebrows.

“I’m to decide if you’re to hurt or not,” Martin says. “You don’t get to decide that for yourself.”

Martin waits, almost sure he has overstepped, as Jon’s expression wars with itself. Then, Jon’s face relaxes, and he says, “Alright. You...you decide.”

“Good.” Martin rewards him with a kiss on the cheek, right over one of those silvery scars left by the Corruption’s worms.

Finally, Martin lets go of Jon’s face, just to wipe the blood away from his mouth with his hand. Then, not quite sure what to do with it, he wipes his hand on his jeans. Hopefully it won’t stain. It’s not a lot of blood, really.

Martin kisses Jon on the mouth again, tasting copper and rich black tea and the distant burn of toothpaste. Jon, Martin realizes, must have brushed his teeth before calling Martin into his office. 

Like he had known how this would play out.

Martin draws back again. But when he searches Jon’s face, there is no certainty there. Just a small hesitation before he closes his mouth without biting his lip again.

“If I take your shirt off,” Martin says, “how would you feel?”

“Exposed,” Jon answers immediately. “Seen. But not - not in a bad way, I don’t think.”

“Hmm. Well, tell me if it feels bad, okay?”

“I will,” Jon says, as Martin lifts his fingers to the top button at his collar. “Just - if what you see - if you want me to leave, I will understand.”

Martin hesitates. Then he replies, “I doubt anything I will see will make me want to kick you out. I’m not like that.”

Jon doesn’t say anything.

So Martin unbuttons his shirt and helps Jon shrug it off. They don’t even need to unbutton the cuffs, as it becomes apparent the shirt was a bit too big for him and his slender wrists and hands. Jon is wearing a white undershirt too, which he agrees to have Martin help him take off.

When the undershirt comes off, Martin sees the scars. There is one on each side of his chest, a little bit below his nipples. Top surgery scars. Years old by the look of it.

(A part of Martin wonders if Jon could even get surgery as he is now, healing as quickly as he does.)

Martin wants to touch, but he remembers Jon telling him  _ no chest _ and Martin, of course, will respect that. “I didn’t realize,” Martin murmurs.

Jon scowls, but the expression is nervous rather than angry. “I’m glad of that,” he says acerbically. Then, a bit more hesitantly, he continues, “As I said, I will understand if you want me to leave.”

Martin looks up at Jon’s face, looking at where Jon’s eyes hide under the blindfold. “No! No - I’d never - you’re okay, Jon. Really.”

The tension doesn’t leave Jon’s posture.

Carefully, Martin wraps his arms around him and pulls him close. He can hear Jon’s breath hitch. “I definitely don’t mind. Really. It matters only so much as it is important to you, but that’s all.”

Jon sighs a little then, and melts into the embrace.

Martin begins to run his hands up and down Jon’s back, which only causes Jon to sink into him more. Then, he begins to drag his nails along Jon’s spine. He digs in a little deeper than he might have otherwise, for his nails are short and the whole point of this is a comforting kind of pain.

Jon’s breath comes a bit faster, a bit heavier, in a way that even the kissing had not changed him. Perhaps a bit of pain really is the way to Jon’s heart, Martin muses. At least for this evening.

Making a decision, Martin scratches him, long and deep. Not deep enough to draw blood, but enough to sting. Jon arches into it. He makes a quiet sound that Martin thinks could be a moan, then whispers, “Fuck.”

At these obvious signs of Jon’s pleasure, Martin can feel himself beginning to feel very good indeed.

“Martin,” Jon murmurs, and  _ yes _ , Martin likes hearing his name in that tone of voice.

He grabs a fistful of Jon’s hair and pulls him back a bit hard, kissing him soundly again. Jon mouths something into the kiss, and Martin doesn’t know if it is his name or something wordless and wanting, but he does know that he loves it.

A long time later, Jon has melted boneless into Martin. He hadn’t really touched Martin much, but Martin is fine with this, as that hadn’t really been the point of the...encounter. Still, when he  _ had  _ touched Martin, running long-fingered hands over Martin’s chest, his hips, his waist - each touch had felt electric. Like there was a promise there that Jon was making, even though Martin didn’t know what it was.

Eventually, Jon’s breath evens out into sleep. Martin shifts just enough to slide the makeshift blindfold up and off Jon’s head. Jon doesn’t appear to notice.

Martin gazes at him, taking in the relaxation and openness in Jon’s face. How even the shadows under his eyes seem a little less deep, and how the pained creases on his forehead have smoothed away.

Maybe Jon can feel the weight of his gaze, because there is a slight tightening of his expression before he opens his eyes and looks back at Martin.

There is something in those dark eyes that makes Martin feel seen. Known. But not in a bad way, not in a bad way at all. He feels safe, and he hopes Jon does too.

“Thank you,” Jon murmurs, voice sleep-heavy. He closes his eyes, mouth moving against Martin’s chest as he speaks. “I feel more...than in a long time.”

Martin can supply the missing word:  _ human _ . It makes him smile, just a bit.

And though terrible things are coming, Martin can’t help but feel all is right in the world, if just for now.


End file.
